Bloomin' Idiots
by owlcroft
Summary: Sherlock visits Mycroft in hospital and a discussion of language ensues.


Bloomin' Idiots

by

Owlcroft and Paula Douglas

"Yes, I do understand, I assure you. But as I said before, there's absolutely nothing I can do. There are certain regulations in place for this precise situation. Happily, I shall be released from your fine hospital tomorrow, and my security detail, naturally, goes with me." Mycroft rolled his eyes impatiently as the person he was explaining to felt the need to natter an additional complaint.

The door to his room suddenly opened and a lanky figure was thrust violently through. The individual still in the hallway tried viciously to slam a door that wasn't made to slam, and very nearly accomplished the feat. As Mycroft opened his mouth to greet his visitor, the door was flung open again and a much-tattered bunch of flowers was flung inside, landing fairly close to the end of the bed. The door was semi-slammed again and a silence fell.

"I'm afraid you must excuse me, Director," said Mycroft smoothly. "A visitor has just arrived. A very _important _visitor." He invested the words with a heavy significance, then clicked his mobile phone off, laying it to the side of his open laptop. "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"Hmm," replied his brother, looking abstractedly at the blossoms on the floor.

Mycroft allowed his gaze to rest on the flowers as well. "How nice of you to bring me something to brighten my stay. How many times did you try to dispose of them before you got here?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Four. And I sat on them in the Tube. All useless."

"Let me see. You threw them in an ashcan, you handed them to someone in the street, you left them on a bench in the station, and . . . ah, of course. You merely dropped them. Am I correct?"

A nod was the answer. Then Sherlock snorted. "John is a little annoyed. I explained but of course he didn't listen."

"Or he doesn't understand. Visits to the ill with flowers are customary and, I suppose, usually appreciated."

The brothers brooded for a moment over the oddities of the common man.

Mycroft shook off his preoccupation and sighed briefly. "Still, thank John for me. I didn't realize he knew that I was fond of chrysanthemums. They look like they were quite nice ones, too." He gazed at the white blossoms littering the floor.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You like them? I didn't know you had a favourite flower."

"Lucky guess then? Ah, well." Mycroft cautiously shifted his position in the bed, wincing as he did so. "Serendipity strikes again."

His brother observed him closely, then halfway reached out a hand as Mycroft shifted yet again, drawing in a pained breath. "Do you need a nurse?" Sherlock asked.

"No, no. I merely have to exercise caution. Recovery time for an appendectomy is quite short these days." The elder Holmes settled back against his pillows and took a deep breath. "There. All comfy again."

Another silence reigned as the brothers looked into space, Mycroft with furrowed brow, Sherlock with a series of fidgets.

Sherlock spoke abruptly. "Since when do you have a favourite flower?" He turned to face his brother, cocking his head slightly and frowning.

"What? Sorry, miles away." Mycroft shook his head and did some light frowning himself. "Favourite flower, hmm?" He pondered, then shrugged, causing another small wince. "I don't know. I suppose it just . . . happened. At some indeterminate point. Chrysanthemums seem to me to have a pleasing shape and a nice variety of colours. They bloom in the fall, which is a time of year that needs flowers. Also, in the Victorian flower code white chrysanthemums mean Truth. I find that quite appealing." Mycroft looked over at his laptop, then carefully lifted it and placed it on his lap. "What's your favourite flower?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't have one."

"Oh, come. Choose one now and be done with it. Think how convenient it'll be when you have visitors in hospital and can tell them that you prefer . . . roses? Too common. Tuberoses are rather attractive. Let's see what they mean in the language of the flowers." He tapped a few keys on his laptop and peered at the screen. "Oh. Dangerous Pleasures." He shot a look up at his brother and hastily added, "Perhaps not. Lilies? No, not with that connotation. Ox-eye daisies are-"

"Geraniums." Sherlock blurted suddenly. "The purple ones."

Mycroft nodded judiciously and found geranium, purple on the list. He chuckled. Then laughed, said "Ow!", grabbed his abdomen and laughed some more, wincing all the while.

Sherlock, wary but incurably curious, peeped at the screen and saw geranium, purple: Shall We Dance.

"That's not funny," he said severely, and loudly to be heard over his brother's laughter. "At all," he added as a tiny smile crept onto his face. "Really."

Mycroft looked up to see the infant smile and pointed at it, still chuckling. "Oh, dear. 'We are not amused'?"

Sherlock gave up the fight and grinned back at him. "Remember when we decided the language of flowers would be a useful code around other people?"

"Didn't work very well, did it? Much too limited. But there were some rather good ones, I recall." Mycroft scrolled down the page and found English daisy: I Will Think of It. "That's one."

"Which one was Mental Beauty? That was a flower I really wanted to like, but didn't." Sherlock drew near enough to crane his head to see the computer screen.

"Here, clematis." The older Holmes kept scrolling. "Ah, and the one I sometimes used to refer to you, Capriciousness – purple carnation."

"And you clearly should have received an arrangement of snapdragons and narcissus." Sherlock stood back with a look of glee.

"Presumptuous and Egotism, hmm. Well then, you could – oh, Lord! Look at this one!" Mycroft pointed to the screen and held his tummy carefully. "Am Dazzled by Your Charms for ranunculus!"

"Oh, and this one: currant. Thy Frown Will Kill Me!"

"An Accommodating Disposition for red valerian. I wonder why."

"White poppy for Oblivious is a nice, useful one."

"Applies to simply everyone!"

ooooo

Out in the hallway, leaning against the wall, John heard the giggles and snorts in Mycroft's room and smiled. The chrysanthemums were expensive but well worth it. Who didn't appreciate flowers, after all?


End file.
